I predicted a great many things in my presidency. I knew one day that I’d be worshipped enough to be carved into the raw granite of the oft-visited Black Hills of South Dakota, loved enough to hold home in the shallow wallets of every American who considers themselves decent, and showcased eternally for use in advertising cellphone contracts or flash deals on foot-long sandwiches.

However, there is one thing I could not predict: the massive amount of luxury found at Presidential City, nestled in the heart of a terra firma most dear to me—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (just off of City Ave).